Kaleidoscope
by Elske
Summary: A chance encounter in what's not a "dog park" after dark brings together Carlton Lassiter and Shawn Spencer - who's cruising for anonymity. And things are about to get very, very complicated. We're talking three corpses complicated. Shassie slash complicated. Serial killer complicated?
1. Chapter 1

"Shut up shut up shut _up_!" Carlton shouts, and Gord the Cadaver Dog just keeps whimpering in the general vicinity of the door.

Santa Barbara Police Department's head detective closes his eyes, counts to ten, curses the cruel hand of fate that left Buzz MacNabb an injured hero and himself in charge of a half-trained cadaver dog just as cheerful and restless as his original trainer. Some law on the books prohibited police dogs being given to civilian custody, and with Carlton Lassiter decided upon as most likely to need the assistance of a cadaver dog, the chief made the decision and that was that was that.

(Carlton Lassiter is not going to admit to liking the company just a little bit: having another heartbeat around the house , canine a poor substitute for human, but at least Gord the Cadaver Dog can't decide to up and leave him, like Victoria and Marlowe and everyone else he's ever bothered to care about.)

But tonight the dog won't stop whining and Carlton tries to remember the advice Buzz handed over from his hospital nest (along with a roll of blue baggies to clean up the remnants of doggie defecation): _He's a good dog, Detective, except sometimes he alerts to things that aren't exactly human cadavers, you know, like road kill or whatever, but honestly he's a good dog, just needs a run in the dog park sometimes and take him out after he eats and he'll be no trouble at all._

Dog park. That's what he's been forgetting, and that's why the dog is probably whining, Carlton thinks, and he groans, grabs up the dog's leash, and prepares to head out the door. Buzz lives on the other side of town, where the dog park is, but there's another park just a few blocks away and that's where Carlton heads, through the twilit streets of Santa Barbara.

It's curious, Carlton thinks, looking around: the park is busier than he's expecting for the hour, mostly men, mostly men giving him appraising glances. One even looks him up and down, winks, says "Lonely, stranger?" And while Carlton's first impulse is to reach for his badge, he merely shakes his head no, heads towards the fountain, Gord the Cadaver Dog frolicking and sniffing at his side.

He leans against the fountain, closes his eyes, rubs fingertips against his closed eyelids. It's peaceful; the sounds of the water a soft blue flash against the back of his eyes, the wind in the trees a flash of white: and then a bright green voice, interrupting, loudly, incredulously "Carlton Lassiter, what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Carlton scowls as he opens his eyes. "Spencer? I could ask you the same thing?" The other man is dressed…almost provocatively, it kills him to admit: jeans tight enough to almost look painful, loose white shirt half unbuttoned, about to slip off of one of his shoulders. It seems to fit with the look of most of the other men he's seen in the park, and then his thoughts are interrupted by a bark of laughter from the other man.

"Me? I'm doing what just about everyone else is doing here, but you're…walking the dog, and you're wearing a shirt and tie and I'd bet my life you're not cruising."

"Cruising?" Carlton echoes, and it's like all the blood has rushed to his face, he's flushed and embarrassed and whatever Spencer's done with his outfit is working, because that stupid voice in the dark hidden recesses of his mind is pointing out, quite insistently, that Shawn Spencer is suddenly very attractive.

"Cruising. This isn't a dog park after dark, Lassie." Spencer shakes his head. "I should escort you out of here, you're in over your head. Not that finding you here isn't a bit of a…" he trails off, shakes his head. "I won't tell that I saw you here and you won't tell that you saw me here, no harm no foul, and I doubt that you'd be able to lose any more respect for me."

Carlton swallows. "I have respect for you, Spencer, as difficult as it is to admit it. It's true."

Spencer laughs again, a self-depreciating sort of laugh. "You won't if I tell you that I show up here for anonymous sex with blue-eyed strangers who don't mind if I call them Lassie when I come." He shakes his head. "The walls have ears, Lassidear, and we should go somewhere more private, if you even want to continue the discussion."

To his surprise, Carlton finds himself nodding, following Shawn Spencer further into the darkening recesses of what isn't a dog park, after dark.


	2. Chapter 2

A stumbling step or three and suddenly there's a tree at Carlton's back, and in the low light he can see Spencer's eyes glittering, the whiteness of his teeth gleaming as he grins an unnatural sort of smile – unnatural even for Shawn Spencer.

"You need to loosen up a bit," Spencer purrs, reaching out to un-knot Carlton's tie; Carlton feels his hands start to tremble with the closeness, with the blatant sexuality that infuses every moment of this encounter that seems to grow more bizarre – and more enthralling – with each passing moment.

He clears his throat. "Spencer," he murmurs, and there's a catch in his voice, a waver in his voice, something that has the other man's eyes widening. "This…this isn't what I want…" And somewhere that dark dark place in the back of his mind – the one that replays Shawn Spencer sprawled in his lap in the office over and over again in dark lonely moments – is starting to lighten, like the beginnings of an eclipse, and it's overpowering the instinct telling him to _run_.

"Of course not. You don't even _like_ me. It's all right," Spencer nearly _purrs_. "You can imagine I'm anyone you like, but I really think you do want this, and the thing of it is, I _need_ this." He reaches out with the necktie, and a moment later Carlton's blindfolded with his own necktie, _again_. "See. If I stop talking I could be _anyone_."

"That's not what I want," Carlton protests again, and his eyelashes flutter against the heavy silk as he blinks rapidly, and somewhere he's aware that his heart is racing as he hears a rustling sound in the grass and fallen leaves at his feet – the sound of Spencer, dropping to his knees. "I do _like_ you, Spencer, more than I want to…" He trails off, shivers, because there's another sound of his trousers being unzipped and then the warmth of the other man's breath.

"Don't argue," Spencer orders, from the vicinity of Carlton's crotch, and there's nothing to be done but give up into the inevitable. Just like that time in the office, his other senses are heightened, and the sensory-overlapping he's dealt with his entire life takes over. Sunset colours in his brain, oranges and yellows resolving into the blues and purples of twilight with his release.

"I do like you Spencer," he admits, breathlessly, feeling the other man's quick hands restoring order to his trousers, redoing the zipper. "And thank you and…"

"Shh." A finger pressed against his lips. "Just an anonymous moment in the dark."

Carlton scowls, reaches up and yanks the necktie from his head. "Spencer. You can't just…"

The other man shrugs, a flash of white shirt fluttering in the twilit woods. "Of course I can. I just did."

His eyes narrow. "And if I wanted more?"

"I'm sure we could find a place to fuck." Spencer laughs. "I never thought you to be the _type_, Carlton Lassiter."

"And I never thought it of _you_." A lie, he realizes, because there have been several moments when the other man's outrageous flirting threatened to overbalance the lessons learnt in anti-gay behavior. …and in this very moment, Carlton wants to take all those lessons and throw them very, very far away.

"What if I wasn't talking about _fucking_?" Carlton adds, thinking of that empty house, thinking about putting an amorous Shawn Spencer into it, and he's weaker in the knees than he was during the blowjob.

Whatever Spencer might have said is thoroughly interrupted by a decisive move by Gord the Cadaver Dog, tired of the men ignoring his whining, tugging on the leash, _needing_ to investigate something. He manages to pull his leash free from Carlton's unresisting hand, takes off at full speed towards a patch of lilies.

"Shit," Carlton says, looking down at Spencer. "Probably a dead animal or something," and he's taking off after the dog, Spencer a step behind him all the way.

Gord is wagging his tail, pointing his nose into the flowerbed, where one very dead man stares a lifeless blue-eyed stare up towards the sky.

"Shit," mutters Spencer.

"Fuck," mutters Carlton.

Gord the Cadaver Dog wags his tail happily, waiting for someone to praise him.

(The soft _click_ of a camera is swallowed up in the other noises of the summer night.)


	3. Chapter 3

[[Author's Notes:

I'm so glad I'm getting such a positive reaction to this! I was afraid it would be a bit dark for everyone's taste, but the amazing fmapreshwab convinced me to go for it, and I'm glad she did!

I'm writing a blatant synesthetic Carlton here, just in case you were wondering where all the misplaced color cues were coming from. No one asked outright, but I thought I'd explain anyway…! Synesthesia is a condition in the brain where senses overlap and there are – usually visual – cues associated with other sensory input, like hearing or touching or whatnot. It's a fascinating condition, usually associated with poets, artists, and geniuses. And we know which of the three Carlton is.

Again, thank you to my reviewers!

xxSpade's Ace: thank you! Smut without smut is one of my specialties. ;)

torchil: That is not where this is going, but that would be a GREAT story idea! Keep reading, I hope you like where this is headed.

Amberlynn1991: more, you say? Here you go!

Islashlove: you're totally right, he _should_ have known, but he has a certain obliviousness to all things gay, at least in this story. That'll be explained in a little bit. Just their luck indeed, bwa ha ha.

Shassiness: I don't think I'm spoiling too much when I say that the person with the camera has so much more malice in mind than ruining a relationship. ;) Thank you, and please keep reading.

And thanks to my dearest fmapreshwab, for encouraging and being awesome.

All that said, off to ch.3!]]

"I've got to call for backup," says Carlton, and Spencer says "They can't find me here," and their two voices overlap and Spencer looks stricken.

Gord is still wagging his tail; Spencer drops to his knees again – and Carlton marvels at how easily he does that in those pants. He loops one arm around Gord, murmurs "Good Dog," and Carlton tries not to be envious that it was the canine that was chosen as a source of comfort.

He clears his throat, a bit awkwardly. "You can go home. I won't tell them you were here. I'll just say I was walking the dog, he needed to run, he took me to the corpse like he's trained to do. Easy as that."

"Really? You'd lie for me?" Spencer's back on his feet and his eyes are shining and Carlton can't help it: he reaches out, cups the other man's face in his hands and kisses him, softly, on the lips. It's just meant to be a token, and so he's surprised to feel Spencer's arms twining around him, surprised when the kiss is deepened, and it's blue and gold and breathless.

"What was that for?" Spencer asks finally, and Carlton shrugs.

"Because you needed it," he says, finally, and reaches for his cellphone. "Go, now, I've got to call for backup. Um, if you've got any friends who you think might need to get out of here before the cops…"

Spencer laughs. "Friends? Here? You've got a lot to learn, Lassidear." He grins, salutes the other man, and takes off at a run as Carlton dials the phone.

Juliet is the first to show up, her wavy hair like a disheveled halo around her head and Carlton is glad to see her: she's his partner, she's his strength, she's one of about three people on the planet he actually trusts. (And he's glad too that Shawn has already gone: they've reached an awkward sort of friendship again, a delicate balance since the end of their relationship, but situations involving the two of them are always touchy.) And knowing that their relationship is long dead – why, Carlton wonders, does he still feel guilty, about the kiss, about what went on in the woods, and he's glad the darkness camouflages his blushes.

"What happened?" she asks, wide-eyed, smelling of mouthwash and tic-tacs. "Carlton…" and in a stage whisper. "Do you know what kind of place this is?"

"I got the idea during the blow-job," he mutters, and it's a truth that's just dry enough to come off as a lie, just as he likes it.

"Oh! Carlton!" she's taken aback, and then she smiles. "I'm sorry, it's just…there's certain things you always seem so…oblivious…to. Like – I'd expect you to come in and arrest people for loitering, not just calmly walk your dog."

"First, he's still Buzz's dog." Carlton sighs. "He wouldn't calm down, he wouldn't shut up, so I decided he needed a run and I wasn't about to go across town to the place Buzz mentioned. I figured I could blend into the crowd, and turn a blind eye, but there's no turning a blind eye to this." He gestures to the corpse, and shudders, and Juliet puts a silent hand on his shoulder.

Back at the station, hours later, it's Juliet who brings him coffee just how he likes it, extra cream extra sugar, and murmurs "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

Carlton takes his head in his hands, glares at her over the top rim of the coffee mug. "Both."

"They want us to go out to see another body."

"Normally this would thrill me," he mutters, cupping a hand to hide a yawn. "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

The corpse is crumpled on a sidewalk, apartments with balconies above, and Carlton's first thought is _suicide_ and his second thought is that it's got to be more complicated than that or they wouldn't have been brought in.

And neither would Psych.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carlton sees Shawn Spencer pacing about, and he turns his head. Their eyes meet, and Carlton blushes, looks away, takes a long long drink of his coffee.

"I'm getting something, Chief," Spencer calls, and everyone gathers in closer to see what the department psychic has to say.

"I'm channeling Liam here…he's fighting, fighting for his life, a short assailant with a knife. And he's fleeing and his only hope is the balcony. Can he survive the fall? A chance is better than certain death by the knife, and he runs and jumps and…dies," Spencer concludes, a bit lamely.

Carlton looks down at the body, and then up at the balconies. "Look at the trajectory," he murmurs, to O'Hara. "Where the body landed…that's not the distance for a push or a fall, that's the distance for a leap."

"And his arms are covered with defensive wounds, like he was fighting back," she chimes in. "On the outsides of his arms, on his face, even."

"Right. Any clue who's responsible?" The chief chimes in, quiet, businesslike.

Spencer frowns, sighs. "Someone shorter than him, not that that takes much, he was pretty tall. I'm getting…something about his shirt? No, that's silly, I don't know.

Carlton peers at the corpse's shirt: faded rainbows, and the words "SB PRIDE 2002!". What that has to do with anything, he's not certain, and he closes his eyes, takes another long drink of his coffee. Fading rainbows play against his eyelids, and he thinks of the man in the park and shudders.

"It's been a long day for you, Carlton, O'Hara. Go home, get some sleep, we'll see you tomorrow," says the Chief, all silver and beige, and Carlton just nods.

"Thank you, Chief," says O'Hara, politely, and the two of them leave the crime scene together. Juliet drives them back to the station, and Carlton gets in his car, heads for home.

He thinks about going straight to bed, but decides he wants a drink: scotch whisky in a glass with a few ice-cubes – just like his father used to drink – and he settles on the couch, turns on the television, because the noises in the nearby condos always make him twitchy when he's just been at a crime scene. He finds a re-run of America's most wanted, turns up the volume and takes a sip of his drink, and another, and then his eyelids are getting heavy so he sets the glass down on the coffee-table and reaches for the red knit blanket from the back of his greyish beige couch.

The sound of his doorbell cuts through his sleep, a sudden bright flash of neon yellow and he jumps, swears, shoulders off the blanket and reaches for the gun he isn't wearing.

There are nine guns hidden in the apartment, not counting his service weapons, he tells himself, as he crosses the living-room, looks through the peephole in the door to see Shawn Spencer in the hallway. And he sighs and he opens the door.

"Spencer?"

The other man shrugs, grins. "I was lonely," he says simply, reaching out and placing the palm of his hand flat against Carlton's chest, follows with his whole body, completely filling Carlton's personal space. "Can I come in?"

And against his better judgment, Carlton nods, moves out of the doorway.


	5. Chapter 5

"I thought you might want to go for a walk with me," says Spencer, and he whistles, calls "Gord! Here boy!"

Carlton shakes his head, takes a step away. "I most certainly don't want to go for a walk with you. Take the damn dog yourself if you're so keen to get back to that park." The moment – the one where he felt all warm and good about Shawn Spencer choosing his company – is broken entirely, and Carlton slumps, thinks of blue-eyed corpses.

Spencer wets his lips. "Not without you. You enjoyed yourself last time. Don't deny that."

He blinks. "I didn't quite enjoy myself. There was a dead man in the daylilies, not to mention I've been awake for twenty-some hours because of it – and the other one – and I'm so sick of this damn dog and…"

The other man pouts. "You know which part I meant, Lassie."

"I suppose I do. But I'd have liked it better if I could have seen your face."

"It's so much sweeter in the dark, "and Spencer's still pouting and Carlton suddenly finds it infuriating. "Listen, Spencer," and he's reaching for the other man's shoulders, taking a step forward and pinning him against the wall. "If you're ashamed of wanting me when you can see me…"

Spencer moans, puts his arms around Carlton and – like that! – they're kissing, all red and gold and gorgeous. It's like a struggle, Carlton keeping Spencer pressed against the wall, Spencer's sharp frantic kisses, little gasping moaning breaths, and then he pulls back.

"For a straight man you're a great kisser," he mutters, and Carlton blinks at him, uneasily.

"I wasn't always. I mean." He closes his eyes, and thinks about what a long long stupid day it's been, all fading rainbows and corpses and kisses. "When I was a teenager, I got in trouble, and by that I mean I got caught in flagrante delicto with a boyfriend. My mom sent me to behavior-modification therapy and arranged dates with her best friend's daughter Victoria. My father found me a mentor on the force and that was that. Until."

"Until." Shawn agrees. "Me, I've always been bent, and I've wanted you for like, ever. But it's easier in the dark."

"Maybe for you." Carlton yawns. "It's been a really long day, Spencer, and…"

He's interrupted by the other man veritably tackling him to the floor with more kisses, and Carlton sighs, giving into the inevitable. It's a clumsy sort of frottage, some clothes on and some clothes off and he falls asleep there, sticky, entwined with Shawn Spencer, on his living-room floor.

(Gord's whining does nothing towards waking him up.)

At the sound of his own cellphone ringing, he groans under his breath, sits up, tries to locate his pants and gives it up as a lost cause, groans again, collapses back against the carpet. His muscles ache from spending the night on the floor, his shirt is distinctively stained, his head is pounding with headache, and – despite the second phone call from who he fervently hopes isn't Juliet – he's still not sure where his pants are. Moreover, Spencer's seemingly gone, and that leaves him feeling curiously empty.

And he swears he smells coffee.

He's hallucinating coffee.

"Morning, Lassieface!" a voice calls out, way too cheerful, and Carlton lifts himself on one elbow to peer over the couch.

"Spencer?"

"Who else? Now get up, get some coffee, get dressed. The Chief wants us."

"Us?"

Spencer crosses from the kitchen with a bottle of Excedrin and a cup of coffee. "Us," he says, setting both things down on the coffee-table, before leaning down to give Carlton another kiss, and then Carlton's kissing him back, overbalancing him, pinning him to the floor: coffee, pills, the Chief forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

[[Author's Notes:

Hello dear readers!

This chapter comes early because I am a crankypants and I got a C on my last essay for school and it made me go "rawr, fic homework", so here you go. I think I'm a better writer than C – level, but I've always been a bit of an egoist.

You know what's good for my C-student ego? Reviews. ;) Thank you to my dear reviewers: Amberlynn1991, Spade's Ace, islashlove, torchil, and especially to fmapreshwab who listens to my crazy fic ideas.

Thank you for reading. :D H&K's, Elske.]]

Chapter 6.

Carlton is coming down from his orgasm, trailing kisses across Spencer's collarbone, when he hears the knocking at the door.

He freezes, presses a fingertip against Spencer's lips, to keep him quiet.

Another knock, and Juliet's voice. "Carlton? Carlton, are you there, are you okay?"

And for one stupid fleeting moment he's tempted to just get up and open the door and let her find him, like that, foolishly stupidly all over Shawn Spencer, but Spencer's already on his feet, dashing down the hallway.

He shakes his head, and he reaches for his boxer shorts – crumpled now, not pristine starched as he usually wears them – and steps into them. Think, Carlton, he tells himself, and he knows he wouldn't be head detective of the SBPD if he weren't good at thinking on his feet. He grabs for the nearly-forgotten glass of scotch and downs it all in one gulp, grabs for the blanket from the couch and wraps it around himself, half-concealing his near nakedness (and hopefully the bruise, courtesy of Spencer, at his throat). Finally, he picks up the coffee-cup, channels his best hangover grumpiness, and opens the door.

"O'Hara?" he sounds confused, and he sips at the coffee, and he hopes she'll buy it.

"Carlton! We've been phoning you for hours."

"Lost my phone," he mutters, sips at the coffee again, and it's true because the phone is in the pocket of yesterday's pants and he's _still_ not sure where those are.

"We were so worried about you! It's not like you to be late for work – I called Shawn, and he said he was coming over to get you. His motorcycle's outside?"

"Disappeared to the bathroom," Carlton replies, and pleaseplease_please_ let Spencer be on the same page.

"Jules!" Spencer chimes in, appearing in the hallway, dressed in Carlton's clothes. "Stole some of your pants, Lassiepants, mine are kind of soaking in your tub. I should have listened to Gus when he said I didn't need that third cleansing smoothie, only the first two just tasted so good. You know? You know." He's got one of Carlton's button-up shirts, wearing it all buttoned-up, and Carlton flushes suddenly when he remembers that he's not the only one that's got bruises to hide.

"Now, if you don't mind, might I go get dressed?"

"Hurry," urges Juliet, her eyes wide. "There's a missing person, they need Gord and Spencer...as soon as possible."

Keeping the blanket firmly wrapped around him, Carlton wanders down the hall to his bedroom, and quickly sets about finding the right clothes to wear – grey shirt grey suit blue tie – holster and badge and he still feels a mess but he doesn't look debauched at all when he returns to the living-room, Gord's leash in one hand.

He hears Juliet giggling, and the pine green drone of Spencer's flirtatious voice, and is stabbed with irrational jealousy. Juliet left Spencer, he reminds himself. Juliet left Spencer and you and Spencer…

"Finally. Dude," says Spencer, "You take longer to get ready than a girl."

"Can we just go?" Carlton asks, closing his eyes for a long moment.

"I'll drive," says O'Hara, a flash of pink and he opens his eyes, reaches down to pet the Cadaver Dog on the head, and they all pile into her car.

As soon as they reach the station, Carlton hands Gord off to one of the professionals at search and rescue and watches, helplessly, as Spencer and Gus – who'd been waiting at the police station – follow.

O'Hara reaches out, touches his shoulder. "Come on, we've got his partner in one of the interrogation rooms."

The partner in question is a young man, with blond hair and dark eyes and a quick nervous smile. "I'm so worried, thank you, detectives," he says, shaking each of their hands. He looks about as sleep-deprived as Carlton feels, and he and Juliet listen as the young man begins to talk about the missing person: Craig Holloway, mid 40s, 6'2", dark brown hair, blue eyes, last seen near the waterfront.

It's a long, long afternoon, filled with awkward small-talk that Carlton wishes he could concentrate on better – and when he gets off duty he's going to sleep for three days – and then they're interrupted by the Chief, herself, peeking into the room.

"We've found him."

"Is he?"

She shakes her head. "Mr Holloway, I'm so sorry for your loss."


	7. Chapter 7

[[Author's Notes:

Apologies for how absolutely shitty this chapter is. Hopefully you'll keep reading. It's gonna get better, promise. H&K's, Elske.]]

Carlton stares down at the collection of photographs on the table, and the names and faces begin to blur together.

No. That's not the way to solve anything.

Four dead men: Patrick Gallagher, from the dog park. Stabbed. Liam Reilly, fallen from the balcony of his apartment, avoiding a knife-wielding assailant. Craig Holloway, missing for fifty-two hours, found near the waterfront. Stabbed, and the knife left in this throat. Sean Thomas Dunegan, missing for two days, found in the airport parking garage, stabbed.

Four dead men.

Four dead homosexuals, Carlton theorizes: the first was found in a spot notorious for cruising, the second wearing a pride tee-shirt, the third married in Vermont to a man – oh, of all the grieving former husbands and wives, Carlton's never seen anyone so upset as the widower Holloway. And the fourth, the fourth, unhappily married and a teary widow admitting her husband had been attending ex-gay therapy for almost a year.

Four homosexuals stabbed to death, and two knives left in the body. Curious knives, oddly shaped knives, with a pattern enameled in their hilts.

Pictures of the four men dead and the four men alive swim in his brain and he wants to just shut it all off and go home and go to sleep, but he's the head detective on the force and it looks like they've got a serial killer on their hands and there's no rest for the wicked.

…and as soon as he thinks that, the door bursts open and there's Shawn Spencer in the middle of some kind of psychic fit.

"AKITA!" he shouts. "Large angry Japanese dog. Wait, no." He fumbles for a dry erase marker, scribbles AKTA and a stylized K on the whiteboard wall. "I'm getting something here," and then he veritably collapses into Carlton's lap, wiggles a bit, and Carlton feels himself going quite pale.

He reaches for one of Spencer's hands, is surprised to find the other man gripping it tightly, interlacing their fingers together.

"AKTA, American Knife Throwers Association, and that's their logo," gesturing to the stylized K, like three of the oddly-shaped knives put together. "The murder is a championship knife thrower, with impeccable aim, obviously." He twitches again, then collapses into Carlton. Carlton puts his arms around him, reflexively, heedless of the knowing look Juliet shoots him from the other side of the table.

"Thank you, Shawn," says Juliet, and then she sighs. "We've been at this for hours, Carlton, one of us should take a break."

"Too tired to drive," he mutters, and he's thinking about how he still doesn't know where that cellphone is – or where his pants are – and all he wants to do is go to bed and sleep for a year.

"I'll see him home," says Spencer and he salutes Juliet and takes the keys from Carlton's unresisting hands. Two men and one dog walk down the hallway out of the SBPD and Carlton is actually trusting and exhausted enough to fall asleep in the car on the way home.

The car stops, and he hears Spencer's voice in his ear, all warm and goldeny, "I'd carry you across the threshold but I'm saving my strength."

"It's okay, I can walk." He yawns, unfastens the seatbelt, opens the door to the car. "Are you going back to work?"

"I was planning on staying with you a bit, if you don't mind," and his voice is still warm in his ear and it's enough to give him shivers all over. "Forgive me, but you need to relax and forget a bit." He grins, moves back, gets out of the car and follows Carlton up the driveway to his condo.

Practically as soon as they're through the door they're kissing again, frantically, and an instant before the end up on the floor again, Carlton insists that they go to the bedroom. They fall, together, into the mess of sheets and blankets, and then a crinkle of plastic being ripped and Spencer's got a condom, murmurs "Mind if I top?" with a wink and Carlton quickly comes to realize that he doesn't mind that, at all. And it's enough to drive away the images swimming in his head of four corpses, and when it's over he sleeps the sleep of the innocent.

It's almost twelve hours later when he wakes, and there's no Spencer, just a note:

_Lassidear:_

_Had a vision_

_Had to go to SBPD_

_Miss you_

_H&Ks_

_Shawn_

(Neatly laid across the other pillow.)

There's a tinny noise that's probably his cellphone ringing in the pocket of the missing pants, and Carlton just groans, stretches a bit sorely, turns over and goes back to sleep, but this time those four men are waiting in his nightmares, blue eyes sad, outstretched hands empty, reaching out for nothing tangible at all.


End file.
